The Prettiest Pillwhore In Pike County
by
George Potter
1.
Lord have mercy, boys — look what just walked through the door. Kelly Woodward, 22 years old. Five foot six and a hundred and twenty pounds, hotter than a fuse blown furnace about to explode and burn the fucking trailer down. Sex on legs, this one. Pretty body, but that ain’t the point, boys. It’s the face. Look at that face, in such a needful way, like an angel on meth.
Look at that strut. Look at those eyes, a shifting gray green radiating equal parts desperation and false bravado. Look at those legs, smooth and pale and shaped oh so perfect.
Look at that face, framed so well by silky strawberry blonde hair. Look at that face and sigh.
Some sonofabitch is getting lucky tonight, if he just has the right pills in his pocket. Alas and shame you say? Shut up, sucker. That’s just the way of the world in this little corner of God’s creation.
She’s striding through the Lion’s Den, right on Route 420, just past Belcher, Kentucky, in the heart of Pike County. A dump, really, with too expensive food that ain’t much to speak of. No alcohol served in this damned dry county, but sometimes there’s a band playing covers of 70’s and 80’s tunes you’ve already heard too many times. The kind of band that always ends the night with an enthusiastic but stripped down version of Freebird.
The den has a couple of pool tables, a few poker machines, and a working bathroom that’s usually fairly clean. What really keeps it going, though, is weed, pills and homegrown sex goddesses like Our Kelly.
Right now she’s slowing down that strut and scoping out the situation. It’s Saturday night, party night, and the place is as packed as it ever gets. The dining room is a forty by twenty foot square, boasting a full sized stage. The band is on break, their equipment looking forlorn and lonely, so the noise level is tolerable.
Kelly is in need, so it’s like her senses are jacked up to eleven. She could smell a fucking Xanax right now. Hear pills rattle in the pocket of the dude taking a shit in the bathroom. Taste the bitter aroma of Lortab on exhaled breath. Feel the rush s a line of Oxy gets snorted in a car in the parking lot.
And she can see. She can see the heads of men turn, almost involuntarily, as she passes. See the flush in their faces and the sudden bulges in their jeans. She can see their reactions and is reassured that what she has between her legs is the most potent and powerful drug of them all.
That reassurance halts her, orients her. She makes a slow turn there in the middle of the room and concentrates. Halfway through the movement, in the far left corner, she spots her mark.
Kelly evaluates. Maybe eighteen. Maybe. Five ten, about a hundred and sixty. No fat, all muscle. Fairly cute. Short black hair and blue eyes. A scraggly little beard that’s almost charming.
And blowed. Blowed to fuck and back. Nerve and pain, hallelujah. And with the unmistakable look of a man who still has a pocketful.
She flashes him her megawatt smile and you can see him flinch. This is power, boys. You can’t deny it.
Our young Mark is actually named Mark. Marcus, to be precise. Marcus Gentry — a noble name for a not so noble little shit. A punk, in fact. A user and abuser. He’s never met anyone like our goddess, and he’ll deserve every fucking piece of pain she brings him. He’s broken so many young hearts that he deserves hanging.
In this case, Our Kelly is an avenging angel.
And in the other corner an unseen and secret observer watches. He sips a dark red drink that’s not on the menu. He is rail thin, impossibly pale, and his eyes drive people crazy. He’s been here for hours and no one has even noticed him. He smiled for the first time when Our Kelly entered. He, too, is in a needful way, but he’s had a hell of a lot more time to get used to the fact of need.
He’s patient, this one, but not immune to excitement, and he can feel it growing inside him. For he knows, without a doubt, that he too has just found his mark.
***
“Hi.” she says, and she makes that single syllable into the most seductive sound ever uttered in the English language.
The mark pauses. He blinks. He is in way over his head, blowed, and struggling.
“Hi.” he eventually manages to say.
The band is meandering back to the stage. They’re blowed too, having spent their break outside burning one, so it’s a slow process.
“I’ve never seen you in here before.” she says, trying to get the preliminaries out of the way before the band cranks back up and all hope of negotiation is lost. She has to get him outside.
“First time I ever stopped.” he says, slurring a little. He blinks about six times, fast. “I was kinda hungry.” Then he grins. It’s a powerful little thing, and has netted him the virginity of quite a few high school girls.
Our Goddess is the rock of Gibraltar, though, brothers. That grin bounces off and whimpers.
“You come here a lot?” he asks, blinks those same six stupid fucking blinks again, and sputters: “You, uh, wanna sit down?”
Kelly almost rolls her eyes. This dude is obviously a total fucking newb. He’s probably only been in pharmaceutical wonderland for a couple of months. Probably only been chasing the dragon for a few short weeks. She bets that he hasn’t even discovered the awful truth of what happens when you actually catch that motherfucker.
She has no respect for little shits like this. If she weren’t so in need, if four different joneses weren’t knife fighting in her guts and brain and spine, she’d humiliate him right here and now and laugh about it later.
She considers fucking him over. Take his dope, get him hard, disappear, and let him deal with it.
But hell — he is cute.
And boys, in her own way she’s honest to a fault. In her own way she’s ethical. Value for value, she figures. She knows what she is, refuses to be ashamed, and tries to do the best possible job of this life she has chosen to live.
Value for value, by God.
“I live right down the road.” she tells him, giving him a grin that makes his look like a mistake. “I’m here almost every night.” She moves a little closer, alters her position with the arcane art known only to beautiful young women, and continues, glancing at the offered chair.
“Want to walk outside? This band is decent, but loud. And I’d prefer to talk, honestly.”
She’ll kiss the guitarist later, because as soon as that last word emerges from her lips, he breaks into a warm up exercise of Thin Lizzy’s Jailbreak. It’s almost painfully loud.
Marcus the mark just nods, stoned eyes revealing that he thinks he’s got one on the line.
Poor little stupid motherfucker.
She leads him out, in absolute control.
In his quiet corner our secret observer finishes his dark red drink and stands. He is impressed by this child’s vitality, passion, cunning and — oh so important — hunger. He recognizes her as kin of a sort, but not such close kin that he can’t get what he needs from her.
He follows, gliding unseen through the room towards the door. His passage chills some, depresses others, and — in one case — will lead to a suicide in the dark, cold hours of early morning. He feels it happen and cares not a whit. This is what he is and what he does. This is his place in the world, the only thing that keeps him going in the hard ages between finding goddesses.
But he’s found one now, boys. And she’s right out there waiting.
He has to pause by the door, to wait for someone to come in or go out, so that he may slip through. There are rules, and those rules must be followed.
The wait is only a few moments. A drunken teenager staggers in and he slides out quickly. As he does, he fights back a laugh. The band breaks thunderously into its first song of the set.
Lynyrd Skynyrd’s On The Hunt.
Fitting, boys. Fitting.
***
The parking lot is as busy as the Den. In fact, it’s where the real deals are going down. It’s a separate little universe of sex, drugs, heartbreak, newborn romance between naive fourteen year olds, love, pain and the whole ancient goddamn game.
Young Marc does indeed have a pocketful. A ninety count bottle of Xanax bars (she almost freaking’ squeals), a barely touched thirty count of Percocet 10s, and sixty Somas. Treasure trove. Fucking dragon’s hoard.
“Wow.” she says, with her best doe eyes shining. “Where’d you get all this?”
They’re sitting in his car, goddess in the passenger seat, her soon to be worshipper in the driver’s. It’s a nicely kept little blue Toyota Camry, just a few years old. Not too shabby. This one, despite his incredible newbness, might turn out to be a keeper.
“My Gran.” he says. “She’s pretty fucked up. TB and back problems and shit.” Six more stupid blinks. She wonders if it’s some sort of nervous tic. “The doc writes them for her, she fills them on her Medicare, but won’t take them.” He smiles with real affection. “Says they make her feel weird.”
Kelly makes a decision. She moves quickly, wraps her arms around him and kisses him. Our goddess can kiss, boys, this is no joke. She lays it right the fuck on him.
She hooks him, then and there. Then she breaks the kiss and — face so close, sweet breath on his cheek — she puts it on the line.
“I like dope.” she tells him. “And I like sex.” She lets that sink in. “If you will share with me…” One hand expertly makes its way to his crotch, where it finds what it’s looking for. “I’ll share with you.”
And that megawatt smile again, up close and personal.
Hooked, boys? Lord have mercy. Hooked ain’t even the word.
“Ok.” he manages, barely, to say.
She’s not greedy. While he shudders and tries to keep from shooting right in his pants she expertly busts two Percocet and a bar on his car owner’s manual. She tucks two more Percs and a bar away.
“Something to wake up on.” she explains sweetly. “Gimme a dollar.”
He does, not understanding yet. With her ID card she dices the two now powdered pharmaceuticals together like a television chef chopping shallots. She cuts the pile into two perfectly equal fat lines.
“What are…” he starts.
“If you don’t want that line it won’t go to waste.”
“I don’t…” he continues.
She does roll her eyes. Then she rolls the dollar with a quick twist and snorts one of the giant lines up her left nostril.
BOOM.
The need drifts away. Pupils dilate, the spine relaxes, the knife fighting transforms almost instantly into a waltz to the goddamned Blue Danube.
Our Goddess is now ascended. No need eating at her. She’s divine again. You can see her straighten, relax, and become glorious. She offers the dollar and the second line to her wide eyed mark.
“Uh…no.” he says. “I just eat them.”
She shrugs, and does the other line. She casually cleans her nose with a tissue from a box on the dash. Then she cuddles up.
“Thank you.” she says, and she means it. With all her heart.
They kiss again. Her hand goes back to its expert work.
“You are so beautiful.” he sighs and shudders as he comes.
“I know.” she whispers, and kisses the tip of his nose.
He’s embarrassed. He can’t believe that he couldn’t even handle a damn hand job.
“Come see me anytime.” she says, zipping him up. “Take me home, please.”
She does live right down the road, in a green and blue trailer that has seen better days. It’s so close to the Den that they can still hear the heavy thud of the bass as the band blares on.
“Can I…” he asks as she steps out.
“No.” She fixes him with a look that brooks no argument. “Let me make one thing very clear, sweetie. I live with my little sister. She’s thirteen and there will be no dope and no fucking going on around her. We can fuck in the car, your place, a motel, even the bushes — but not around my sis.” She smiles, to take the edge off. “Ok?”
He just nods.
“Come see me tomorrow, while she’s at school. Bring me presents, and you’ll get everything you’re fantasizing about right now.”
“Ok.” His dumb ass is so in love. “My name is Marcus, by the way.”
“I’m Kelly.” She closes the door. “Nice to meet you.”
And she just walks away. Struts off.
As the mark drives off, our secret observer watches with something approaching awe. He wants to speak to her, but knows that the time is not right. As she unlocks the door and goes inside he slips beneath the trailer and finds a resting place. He cannot speak to her, touch her, taste her yet, but he simply must be close.
This one, he knows, is worth the wait.
Our Kelly says to hell with it and bust another Percocet and a bar. She slams it and cracks a beer. After her nerves settle she quietly goes to her sisters’ room and peeks in.
Casey is asleep. She’s still fighting with the baby fat and the kids at school are cruel. To make things worse she’s currently in a Goth phase and seems to go out of her way to make herself look ugly. There have been several screaming fights over tattoos and piercings.
But as she sleeps she looks like an angel to her sister.
Their mother has been dead for two years. They never had a father.
They are all they have.
In the bathroom, she discovers that she can still look at herself in the mirror.
Oh Lord, boys, she’s flying high. She goes into her bedroom, undresses, and lies down. She smiles to herself. She was actually tempted to let little Marcus have a piece. She thinks about him as she masturbates. Got to save something for another day, she knows. Can’t give it all out on the first go.
Her second orgasm is a killer. She shudders out of it, sweating, the dope intensifying the effect.
And, like every night, she cries. Then she feels stupid for it. The she laughs. Who, really, gives a fuck?
Beneath her floor darkness waits, and over at the Den the band is going down for the count, cranking up the last song of the night.
It is, of course, Freebird.
She sings along as she drifts off to sleep. In this little corner of God’s creation you can’t count on much. You can’t bet on a damned thing.
But boys, there’s always Freebird.
2.
The alarm clock pulls her from sleep and she feels like death warmed over. But her feet hit the floor and she pulls on boxers and a t-shirt and does what she has to do.
She’s cooking bacon and whipping a bowl of eggs to scramble when Casey wanders out of her room and sits, still half asleep, at the table.
“Good morning, sissy.” Kelly says, with good humor that’s entirely false.
“Morn.” Casey returns, yawning. “She blinks at her sister. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks much. Do you want eggs?”
“Nah. Bacon sandwich. Just mayo.”
“Untoasted, I know. Coming right up.”
They eat in mostly silence as Casey mopes and Kelly feels worse and worse. After breakfast, Casey dresses in her usual doom and gloom style and leaves without a goodbye.
The goddess can now wake up for real. Bust, BOOM, ascension, in quick practiced succession.
Boys, when that oxycodone and amprezole hit brain and nervous system, the world suddenly ain’t so bad. The bets seem a little surer and the whole damn universe seems to make a bit more sense.
She floats through the dishes and her regular cleaning, humming Freebird. The Percocet instantly banishes her headache — which had been a throbbing day after masterpiece of pain and creeping nausea. She really, truly smiles, here alone in her private space, no pretense or motive in it.
A beautiful thing.
The Xan kicks in and she drifts languorously away, her mind free as a cloud, all the problems and pain of the world belonging to that poor little thing down there cleaning.
That poor little thing doesn’t really mind, though. Not so long as the pure opiate aura bubbles from her center and radiates throughout her entire being. She basks in warmth and a feeling of protection. Everything’s just fine and just a little funny. Everything will work out.
She passes the mirror and stops for a moment. She smiles at her reflection. All her life men have told her that she was beautiful. A doll. The prettiest girl they’d ever seen. She’d never believed them, not really. She just assumed they were after some ass. She never hesitated to use it, of course, trying to get what she wanted or needed, but she’d never bought the hype.
But all warm and blowed? Maybe. She examines herself. High cheekbones, and a short, straight nose. Full lips and slightly oversized eyes. Green, as Irish as the red-blonde hair. Even in the baggy, shapeless t-shirt and with the puffy eyes she thinks she might just be what they claim. The thought actually makes her blush. Her mother would have slapped her for vanity.
She’s pulled from such thoughts when someone knocks on the door. She glances at the clock. It’s 9:30. Who the hell?
She peeks through the window and is unsurprised to see Marcus at the door, looking a little unsure. She is both annoyed and flattered. She had told him to visit, she just hadn’t expected him to show up so damn early. She’d taken him for the late sleeper type.
He sees her, smiles shyly, waves. He looks pretty worn down, she notices. The combination of hangover and (she guesses) lack of sleep.
She sighs. Jesus.
But she lets him in.
She makes coffee. It’s what you do. She pours them both a cup and sits cream and sugar on the table. She sits opposite him and gives him a wan smile, mostly annoyed that her morning buzz was more or less shot.
But — he has a pocketful, she reminds herself.
So — a smile, wan or not.
“Thanks.” he says, sipping, fighting a grimace. She fights a different sort of smile. Appalachian coffee strips paint as a side job. This guy, she knows suddenly, is not from around here.
“I’m not doing them anymore.” he says, suddenly and quietly, without a hint of preface.
Her gut drops, instantly. A cold feeling wells up inside her and she has to force herself calm. To lose such a promising supply now was a disaster. She goes into instant damage control mode. Her eyes never waver, give no sign whatsoever that she was very close to freaked.
She just smiles, a little nicer.
Deep breath, lock eyes with him. Now, the real smile, yeah. Yeah.
She goes to work.
***
Cruising in the Camry. What a nice little car.
“Turn left here. Up the hill, third driveway past the dip.”
She flips her hair out of her face. “Just be cool.”
He nods. Cracks a beer from the 12 pack she bought for him.
They arrive and she is out of the car before he can form the first syllable of “Be careful.”
He watches a goddess stride to the door of a double wide trailer, the sun seems to bathe her and make her special against the background of hills and barren trees. Immortal stride, he thinks, no human woman can walk so sensually. She forces her purse up onto her shoulder with a single smooth and natural move.
He sighs. Dies a little. Kills the beer.
He watches her disappear inside and pays attention to the symbols. The surface. The code uninterrupted.
She is casual in scuffed Nikes, Mudd jeans and a knit Gap sweater about two sizes too big for her. Her hair is in neighbor girl braids. Cute rather than sexy.
Evil. Practical. Brilliant.
He waits, drinking beer too fast and pretending desperately that he isn’t falling in love with her.
Inside, she works the room. The girls there are scared to see her. They know who she is and know that she could take their good situation away with a smile and a word. They relax when they notice how she’s dressed. Friend in need, not a party crasher, oh no. Just business, a little trading.
She gets what she wants, what she needs.
She comes out and opens the driver side door.
“Scootch. I’m driving. That 12 pack is pretty much toast. You don’t need a DUI.”
He just stares, kind of surprised.
“Scootch!” she says, louder, sounding scarily like a kindergarten hall monitor.
He scootches.
Oxy 80, traded for lesser offerings.
Busted, she forces him to share.
Barely making it home. He throws up twice.
Smashed. Obliviated.
A tangle of bodies, sweat, smooth skin, sweet sounds, pleasure so intense it almost hurts.
Now.
Sleep.
***
They wake, wrapped in a sheet, about the same time. They smile at each other, real deal sincere I’m-still-fucked-up-ain’t-you? smiles.
Can’t fake those.
“I can’t do that shit anymore.” he tells her, again. “Seriously, Kelly. I can’t.”
She just sighs and hugs him tighter. She understands now. He’s basically offering to hand over his stash and let her do them as if she lived in Neverfuckingland.
A glance at the clock. It’s three in the afternoon.
I’ve got to get my ass in gear.” she says. “And you…” pretend stern, “have got to get your ass out.”
“Your other boyfriend coming over?” he says, trying to sound joking but with a definite jealous edge.
“Nope. Little sis. Even Worse.”
They dress fairly quickly for two people still blowed to Oz and back. She offers him his bottles. He shrugs.
“Just keep them. But remember — I can’t get anymore until the fifteenth. That’s a week from now.”
She hugs him, tells him to meet her at the Den later, and they part.
Wild day. She reheats and finishes the pot of coffee and pops Casey a pizza in the oven. She’s usually starved by the time she gets home because she refuses to eat lunch with the assholes she goes to school with.
She lines the bottles on the table and takes stock. Half the Percs are left, a little more than half the Xans, and the Somas are untouched. She doesn’t care for the latter herself, but a lot of folks do, so they’re handy for trading.
She smiles at her new stash. Not a bad chunk of dope to just get handed to her by a guy she met the night before.
Things, she tells herself, are looking up.
And beneath her house her newest admirer shivers and smiles in his sleep, as if in agreement.
(Bad Patterns — featuring the full version of this story and nine more – will be available this Spring.)
